He Shall Grieve Not
by Hekate1308
Summary: Di Greg's Lestrade thoughts during "The Reichenbach Fall", John after the Fall and Sherlock's return. Continued.
1. Guilt

**Author's note: I actually wanted to write this for a while, but somehow I never did. So I figured why not now? I'm also experimenting with my style a bit.**

**I don' own anything, please review. **

As he stood before the corpse of a great man, Greg knew that the answer wasn't simply "He killed himself".

Nothing in Sherlock Holmes' life had ever been this simple. Nothing in Sherlock Holmes' life could be this simple. He had been a walking contradiction – a sociopath with a heart, a realist with an idealist's mind, a genius who was an idiot when it came to emotions – and Greg would never believe that he would have jumped because his reputation had been destroyed. Sherlock had never given much about what other people thought about him. He hadn't even given much about his career. What he'd cared about had been the puzzle.

And he wouldn't have killed himself before this one, this greatest puzzle of all had been solved.

He looked at the corpse again, the almost unrecognizable corpse, and wondered if he was simply deceiving himself, like so many relatives and friends of victims he had encountered during his years as a detective.

He was surprised and a little ashamed that he didn't feel nauseous, standing before the body of his friend. A moment later he realized that he was most likely in shock. This didn't help much, since the words Sherlock had uttered the day he met John Watson – "I'm in shock, look, I've got a blanket" – came immediately to his mind.

He swallowed and looked once more down at the body of his – of his – no, Sherlock had been his friend. Even if he hadn't been Sherlock's.

He was standing before the corpse of his friend, and no one could tell him otherwise.

He took a deep breath, taking one last look at the shell the greatest detective of the century had left behind and turned around. He hastily bid Molly Goodbye and returned to his office to deal with the paperwork.

He should have known, really. He should have realized what was going on the moment Moriarty had broken into the Tower of London. He had been the only police man Sherlock Holmes had trusted; therefore he had obviously thought Greg was better than the others, cleverer than the others. And he had let him down in the end. Just like everyone else, except John.

And yet, it all had seemed so clear in the beginning. When Moriarty had stolen, or rather played with, the Crown Jewels.

Greg had meant what he'd told Donavan; break-ins certainly weren't their division. And there were other, far more experienced and longer-serving police officers to take care of it. That their division had even been told was strange. He still suspected Mycroft had something to do with it.

Still, he and Donavan drove to the Tower of London followed by several police cars. He hadn't thought of Moriarty, to his everlasting shame, even when she'd told him about the Bank of England and Pentonville Prison.

He knew all about Moriarty by this time, he had been there after the bomb opposite 221B exploded, when the bodies turned up, when Sherlock solved a riddle just in time to save a child's life.

He should have made the connection; he didn't. And yet he was supposed to be a police officer, for God's sake. He should have seen it.

But he hadn't, and now Sherlock was dead because of it.

Oh, he had jumped; John's testimony was proof enough. Greg didn't interview him himself – it would have been highly unprofessional – but in the aftermath, he read the doctor's statement again and again.

Sherlock had jumped.

But Moriarty had driven him to the edge.

And now he was dead, and nothing, nothing mattered anymore.

What did he care about his career? Mycroft would probably take care of it anyway.

The only thing that mattered was that Sherlock was dead.

He should have realized what was going on when he'd arrested Moriarty.

"No rush" the consulting criminal said when they arrived.

Greg didn't answer, simply nodded to Donavan to handcuff him, all the while studying the man because he couldn't help but wonder whether this was what Sherlock could have become. Heartless, ruthless, the most dangerous criminal the city had ever seen. He knew Donavan still saw him that way; he knew her and Anderson didn't trust Sherlock in the least. He knew better.

He knew that this – Moriarty – was what Sherlock could have been, if he'd chosen the other road. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

Moriarty grinned at him and he realized he probably knew what he was thinking. He ordered Donavan to bring him to the car. He knew what Moriarty was thinking; he knew Moriarty knew. There was no need to exchange words.

He tried to talk to Sherlock about him once, before the trial. The consulting detective, however, was preoccupied with an experiment, simply waved his hands in the air and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Leave me alone".

He did.

Not even John told him much about Moriarty that he didn't already know from personal experience or the blog. And of course he wasn't allowed to handle the investigation – of course someone the Chief Superintendent "trusted" (whatever this meant) did it and in the end Moriarty walked free.

He wasn't surprised when it happened, although he'd hoped against hope that it wouldn't. Sherlock might think him an idiot, but he wasn't, and a man who could break into the Tower London, the Bank of England and the Pentonville Prison could surely somehow manage to threaten the jury into setting him free.

He was concerned. This guy obviously was obsessed with Sherlock, if his message at the Tower was anything to go by. He had to watch out for the younger man.

He failed.

Somehow, standing in the morgue, he wished he could say he had stood by him no matter what. That he had always done the right thing, that he had done what he believed in.

But it would be a lie.

Why did he ever believe Donavan?

The answer was easy enough: He didn't.

Of course he called Sherlock immediately as soon as the father of the missing children had expressed a desire that the "Reichenbach hero" should be involved.

He was even proud of himself, at the time. Because he believed that somehow he had finally managed to make people see the man Sherlock truly was, the hero he denied he was.

And Sherlock saved the children, of course he did. And Greg helped because he listened like he always had, like he always would.

Or so he thought.

He couldn't say that he really believed Donavan had a point. Not at first, no; he couldn't. He actually had to ask what the other possibility was because he simply thought it ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. He had known Sherlock for over six years; he had seen him solve more cases than any other detective he had ever met.

But to any other man it must seem like Donavan was right and he was wrong and he had been duped all along and Sherlock was a fraud and just like that his world came crashing down around him.

He knew it was his duty to go to the Chief Superintendent, but it still felt like a betrayal. No. He was betraying Sherlock. And that he called and told John they were coming didn't change a thing. He still arrested Sherlock. He still allowed an officer to put handcuffs on him. He still told John to be silent.

And then –

He had known, in the back of his mind he had, that Sherlock was going to try something. Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not resourceful, and he certainly wouldn't go to jail for something he didn't do.

Furthermore, he made no attempt to prevent their escape. He went and stood on the street, waiting for something – he didn't know what – to happen.

When it happened, he was more annoyed that anything else, and that should really have told him the truth, but it didn't, and he only discovered it in the morgue when everything was too late.

He told the officers to do what Sherlock said – secretly hoping without admitting it to himself that they would manage to escape – and only realized that he had a problem when the Chief Superintendent ordered him to find them.

He struggled with himself for the briefest of moments. In truth it wasn't really a struggle at all. He had already jeopardized his career when he called John and he wouldn't stop helping them now. He didn't care what happened to them. He had to make sure Sherlock was safe, that Sherlock was cleared. And if he was arrested now –

Suddenly it occurred to him that he might call Mycroft, and he shook his head. He should have done so as soon as Sherlock was accused of inventing the crimes. Really, maybe he was an idiot after all.

Or not.

Because Mycroft told him that there was nothing he could do; because Mycroft was ready to see his younger brother hang; because Mycroft, when he started to get angry simply hung up; because Mycroft turned out to be the arch-enemy Sherlock had always insisted he was.

All Greg could do was try and hinder the search as much as possible. He came to realize that he knew Sherlock better than he'd thought; he knew where he was likely to look for shelter. Therefore no abandoned buildings were stacked out and neither were any friends of Sherlock's – which really wasn't a long list – interviewed.

Dimmock was the only colleague who brought a lead, and he was careful enough only to explain to Greg when they were alone that someone had seen two men who resembled Sherlock and John in the vicinity of Kitty Riley's house. Then the younger DI ripped the piece of paper into pieces and left his office. At least Sherlock had another friend at Scotland Yard. Gregson had immediately offered to help look for him to save his own skin when he'd heard about the accusations against the consulting detective.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. His phone rang constantly, both Anderson and Donavan tried to give him advice at how to find Sherlock, the Chief Superintendent demanded hourly reports and he was trying not to appear like he wanted the two partners in crime to stay off the grid.

During this chase that really wasn't a chase at all he only bestowed the most cursory of glances on a DC he was sure he had never seen around before; he didn't have the time to wonder about his presence and decided that the Chief Superintendent had most likely drafted additional men into the task force.

When he got the call he didn't think; he just reacted. He grabbed his coat and stormed out of his office, not even Donavan daring to ask him where he was going.

He took a look at the blood on the pavement – not more than a look – and immediately went to the morgue. John was nowhere to be seen; it was more than likely that Mycroft had had him brought home (Mycroft, who had betrayed his brother; Mycroft who had left him – no – no maybe it wasn't him, maybe -)

And this was why he was standing here now.

And it was Sherlock. There could be no doubt about that.

He was sure it was Molly who had let him in, but she was nowhere to be seen. She was probably crying somewhere.

He hated himself for the fact that he wasn't.

He took one last look at the body of his – his – friend and slowly said, "Goodbye, Sherlock" before turning around and leaving.

He had things to do.

He was going to clean Sherlock Holmes' name if it was the last thing he did.

**Author's note: Just Greg reflecting before Sherlock's body – I love DI Lestrade.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	2. Numbness

**Author's note: A reviewer gave me the idea to expand on this story. I decided to do it because – well, it's my chance to be a little angsty for once. Feels ahead, I think.**

**You're welcome.**

**I don't own anything, please review.**

He should be angry or sad or –

He should feel something.

This was the thought that continued to hunt him through the weeks that followed Sherlock's passing: _He should feel something._

And yet he couldn't bring himself to feel anything, really.

No; that wasn't quite true. When Sherlock had jumped – as he'd watched him fall – fighting his way through the curious onlookers who hadn't even dared to touch him – he had felt. He had known as soon as he had seen Sherlock jump that there was nothing he could do. Nobody could survive a fall from this height. He was realist enough to know that.

And for a moment he had felt everything he was supposed to feel. Grief, anger, hope. But it had lasted but a minute. The moment he had taken Sherlock's pulse – or non-existing pulse – every emotion had drained out of him and left him what he was now. A shell of a man.

Although he wasn't quite the same man he'd been when he returned from Afghanistan. No one could be the same after meeting Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective.

Before Sherlock he had been miserable. Perhaps even suicidal – he wasn't sure; or rather he wasn't ready to admit it to himself. Yes, there had been a time when he'd stared at the gun in his drawer far too much, but that didn't mean he had contemplated ending it all. That didn't mean –

That didn't mean Sherlock Holmes had saved his life.

That didn't mean he had thrown everything – everything, the cases they'd solved, the danger nights, the times John had forced him to eat – back in the doctor's face when he had jumped.

If only it was that simple.

John Watson's life hadn't ended that day.

John Watson's life with Sherlock Holmes had, though.

And it was the only life he had ever really enjoyed.

And yet he didn't feel anything except this numbness.

No, that wasn't quite right.

He knew what had happened, was still trying to grasp the enormity of what had happened. But while he couldn't understand it there were moments when he'd suddenly realize Sherlock was gone – moments, so brief he could hardly comprehend they had begun before they had passed; and they were soon gone, like every other feeling – and the thought would feel like a stab in his heart and bring tears to his eyes, no matter that he was just at Tesco's or sitting in a pub or walking around.

The loss was always there in the back of his mind and he suspected that it always would be. Sherlock had been his friend, his family even, and he was gone. And John would never be able to forget him.

Or why he was gone.

After Sherlock's suicide – only once, immediately after his death, had he been weak enough to call it simply "death", but his friend had killed himself, and no matter what he thought or said, it wouldn't change a thing – the media had been full of the "fallen consulting detective". Most of them had been sure he was a fake. Just a few – all bloggers – had insisted he wasn't. John had kept out of it.

He knew Sherlock hadn't been a fraud; he knew that his best friend had been right. But what difference would it make if he proclaimed it? The public wouldn't believe him, and Sherlock wouldn't have wanted him to cower before the press. Of that he was sure.

And yet –

Sometimes he couldn't shake the feeling that his homeless network was more protective of Sherlock's reputation than he was. Wherever he went, he was sure to find a "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" graffiti staring into his face; there were some people – people who had always been paid well for their information, no matter if it was important or not, and no power on earth could convince John that Sherlock had paid them only because he thought they would eventually give him some valuable information.

He had paid them because he had felt sorry for them, because he wanted to help them. John clung to this thought; even if no one else would, he would always believe Sherlock Holmes the best man he had ever met. The man who had saved his life, the foremost champion of law of their generation.

If this had been it – if he had been left to grieve alone, if one could call this numbness that was making his life so utterly gray grieving – he could have lived with it. He would still have been numb, numb like he was now, like he was suspecting he would be for a long time; but he would have been strong if only for Sherlock's sake. But he wasn't allowed to grieve, he wasn't allowed to come to terms with what had happened on his own.

Reporters all over the UK – all over the globe, to be precise – decided that they needed to hear the story of Sherlock Holmes the fraud out of John Watson's mouth. Immediately after Sherlock's suicide they camped in front of their flat; but not only did Mycroft – at least John thought it was him, even if it still hurt to even acknowledge his existence – send a few cars with agents to send them away; they simply hadn't counted on Mrs. Hudson.

Their landlady and definitely not their housekeeper took one look at the cars and the people in whose yes the next headline was glistening and stormed out of the house.

One of the newshounds – a particularly aggressive guy from a tabloid, who had tried to grab John as he made his way through the lines of reporters – wasn't intelligent enough to realize that one should never make Mrs. Hudson and started asking, "You were Sherlock Holmes' landlady, right? So what – "

The glare she shot him was enough to make even him shut up. She continued to stare at every reporter who as much as tried to say a word and then announced, "We have nothing to say. Nothing at all. So I suggest you find yourself another story".

She had turned around and slammed the door in their face; the few remaining journalists had been chased away by Mycroft's men ten minutes later.

They didn't come to Baker Street afterwards; but whenever John left the house, to go grocery shopping or search for a new flat – he hadn't told Mrs. Hudson yet that he would move out, but he was sure she already suspected it – one of them was certain to appear out of nowhere and start asking questions.

If he hadn't been numb, he would have punched them in the face. Instead he simply ignored them.

He would have expected the police to interview him, but they didn't. At least they hadn't been in contact ever since his first statement; he suspected Mycroft. Not that he'd ever ask.

Greg called calling him, though, and he kept trying to call him. And that –

Even with the numbness, what he felt was complicated at best.

It was easy to blame Moriarty; he was the one who made Sherlock jump. No matter that Sherlock killed himself, he was the one who made him do it. He'd disappeared after the consulting detective's death; sometimes John fantasized about finding and killing him, and these fantasies almost made him feel again.

It was easy to blame Moriarty; it was even easy to blame Mycroft who, although he'd lost his brother, was going on like he always had. Arranging Sherlock's funeral, dealing with the reporters – it was just another task for him. Just another job.

So, despite him losing his brother, it was easy to blame Mycroft.

Greg was – Greg was different.

The DI had called to let them know they were coming to arrest Sherlock; this could easily have cost him his job. And yet –

He had gone to the Chief Superintendent with Donavan and Anderson. Donavan and Anderson, who had never thought of Sherlock as something other than a freak. He should have known they were just waiting for a chance to ruin his reputation – he must have known; and yet he had helped them in a way.

And John couldn't say whether the fact that he had called proved that he hadn't wanted any of this to happen or that he had just been feeling guilty.

And he and Greg had been friends. They had met regularly, they had gone out for a pint, they had looked after Sherlock together on danger nights –

And he had thrown all of this back into their faces. If he hadn't gone to the Chief Superintendent –

But there was no use in thinking "if". It had happened, and Sherlock was gone, and John was numb.

He thought he'd stay numb – it had already been a month – but then he and Mrs. Hudson visited Sherlock's grave.

And whatever was left of his world came crashing down around him.

He knew that one couldn't wish people back to life; he had seen too many patients die, too many comrades fall not to, and yet he ended up begging Sherlock not to be dead. Because he would give anything to see him again, to be dragged around London again, even to have to sit up through a danger night again.

The grief he had been waiting for washed over him and before he quit the cemetery he was limping again.

The grief that never left him for a moment from this day on.

Some days, he thought he had preferred the numbness.

At least he finally decided to call Greg, though. He was still the police officer who had given Sherlock the chance to work with him all these years ago, and maybe a meeting would help him to decide what to think about the DI's actions.

Being angry would be easy; being angry would be understandable; but he owed it to Greg to at least try and hear him out.

Greg looked awful; John knew he couldn't look much better himself, but still – he'd never seen the DI in a dirty suit before, there was stubble on his chin and dark rings under his eyes.

They made small talk for a while, or rather tried to; neither of them wanted to be the first to speak of Sherlock.

The problem was that the usual small talk phrases – "How are you?" for example – weren't exactly safe either. They could both see the other wasn't fine.

It was Greg who finally broke. He looked at the table, his glass, everywhere but at John and said, quietly, "I should never have gone to the Chief Superintendent".

And just like that John knew he could never be angry at Greg. Their friendship would never be the same – there was no reason to pretend otherwise – but he wasn't the only one who had lost someone that day.

And angry as he was at himself for leaving Sherlock alone, Greg must blame himself far more.

"Greg..." he started but the DI shook his head.

"I know, John; I know every excuse you could invent. I tried to make them myself." He was silent for a moment, then continued, "I am making sure Sherlock's old cases are reinvestigated – to prove he wasn't a fake. It's – it's all I can do".

John swallowed.

"Thank you" he finally managed, and Greg nodded and stood up.

"I'll – I'll be in touch. We should do this again, sometime" and a weary smile lit up his face for a brief moment.

"Yes" John answered, "yes we will".

And they would.

Because this wasn't perfect, and they were both blaming themselves, and things would never be the same.

But this was their life now and they would have to get used to it.

**Author's note: There's going to be one more chapter – Sherlock's return. And I'll try to keep it in the same tone as this one – meaning a little bleaker and more realistic than I usually do. **

**Enough rambling, I hope you liked it. **


	3. Shame

**Author's note: My apologies for the late update. Here's the last chapter. **

**I changed the name of the chapters because two reviewers pointed out that every chapter was about a different feeling and – **

**Of course, that was totally supposed to – **

**Okay, you people give me too much credit. It just happened. But I figured, why not? Thanks for the suggestion. **

**I don't own anything, please review. **

Sherlock Holmes had fought many battles in his life.

He had fought not to become the business man his father wanted him to be; he had fought to be free from university and live his own life; he had fought against certain temptations – "danger nights" as some liked to call them – and he had fought – he had fought against Moriarty.

During these battles, he had of course felt many emotions; emotions that he tried to suppress but yet, for some reason, kept getting stowed away in his mind palace, emotions he tried to delete time and time again. Needless to say, it hadn't worked.

But this emotion, the one he'd tried to get rid of ever since he faked his suicide, was new. Just when he had thought he had experienced every emotion – and not been sorry for it, because frankly, feeling was more annoying than anything else – Moriarty had decided to play his final game with him and now –

Now he felt ashamed.

He had never felt ashamed before, of that he was sure. For one, emotions had proved quite hard to delete, and then – why should he have felt ashamed before any of this? Mycroft had forced him to detox; but he had never felt ashamed for his drug addiction. In a world that had offered him little, if any distraction, he had felt entitled to use whatever he could to keep his mind occupied.

Lestrade had tried to "make him behave", as he'd called it, after they'd first met, but he had never seen the point of being polite – it was just a waste of time; and neither had he ever felt the need to apologize.

Now, though...

Now he was ready to beg if it only meant he could return home.

He couldn't. Not yet.

Perhaps not ever.

Moriarty's web was bigger than he'd thought – spanning across all continents, and most of the parts where difficult to find in the first place because the consulting criminal hadn't left any paper trail – and sometimes he wondered if he would ever be able to destroy it.

True, he had Mycroft's help, or at least his brother sent him valuable information from time to time, but he still did all the legwork alone – the only way he could dismantle the web, really, any bigger operation would undoubtedly be noticed and he couldn't afford that. He had to keep his –

He had to keep his friends safe.

The friends who didn't know he was alive. John's face at the cemetery came to his mind unbidden and the new-found and very irritating feeling of shame washed through him again.

It was ridiculous, he told himself. Dying had been the only way to make sure nobody would look for him while he was dismantling the web, and John couldn't know for the simple reason that he meant too much to the doctor. John would most likely insist on helping him, and his altered demeanour would throw suspicion on his death. He was sure Moran still had his friends watched.

Because – if their roles were reversed, he would sure he would do the same thing, or rather John would do the same thing since (he shuddered at the thought) Moriarty and Moran were the mirror image of him and the doctor.

And then there was another question that had started haunting his nights ever since he died.

Why had he ever left someone like John Watson into his life to begin with?

John was a good man; he'd served his country, he was a doctor, he was – he was just nice.

And Sherlock had seen the adrenaline junkie and grabbed him without worrying about the consequences.

Until the cemetery he hadn't realized that John had come to depend on him as much as he did upon the ex-soldier – he had never believed anyone could depend on him so much. He knew perfectly well that he could hardly be considered civil; there was no reason anyone should mourn for his death like John had.

Like John still did.

Sherlock took a deep breath and concentrated on finding the drug lord he was currently tracking. Being emotional would do no good at all. He had to finish what he had begun; he had to destroy Moriarty's web so he could return home.

Even if he wasn't sure that he would be welcome.

But there was no use in conjecture. This – this wondering how things would have been if he' acted differently, how things would be, was just as new to him as the shame he was experiencing.

He didn't care much for it, either.

All of this – the shame, the regrets, the wishes – were nothing but distractions. He couldn't afford to be distracted.

Sometimes he wondered when he had begun to turn so sentimental and found that he didn't know.

John Watson had definitely shaped him into who he was now, but the change had started long before he'd met the ex-army doctor.

Maybe when he'd met Mrs. Hudson; maybe when he'd met Lestrade. It didn't matter.

What mattered was that his mind palace was clocked up with information about jumpers and divisions and tea and so many other things he couldn't delete, and somehow he couldn't bring himself to try and clean the rubbish out.

So he concentrated again on what he had to do and managed.

For a few weeks, sometimes even for a month, and then something – anything, really, an ugly jumper, an idiotic police officer, rain – would remind him of London and all he'd left behind, and he would have to live through all of it over again.

And no matter what he did, remembering John's limp returning at the cemetery, he wasn't sure the doctor would forgive him. Maybe he'd just hit him and throw him out. Maybe John had found –

No. Not maybe. John had always wanted a family. Sherlock had always known they wouldn't live together forever – John was almost certainly married by now. Perhaps he'd forgotten him.

It would definitely better for John if he had. Although Sherlock wasn't selfless enough to wish he had. No matter what John had thought at one time – he wasn't a hero.

He had to try, though, he had to try to return home, otherwise he'd be swallowed by these thoughts.

And just when he thought he never would be able to prove Moran guilty of anything, Ronald Adair was killed.

He half-suspected that it was a trap; Moran wanted his head, he was sure of that. But it didn't matter. It didn't matter as long as he could return home.

He went straight to the Diogenes Club. Mycroft was not surprised to see him – he had most likely made the connection before Sherlock had, but they didn't talk about him – and promised to have extra surveillance put on John Watson until Sherlock was ready.

He broke into Lestrade's flat that night; he could use the DI's help.

As soon as he'd opened the door, Lestrade stumbled out of the bedroom, eyes alert. He froze when he saw Sherlock and the consulting detective felt shame trickling through his veins.

He swallowed when the other man's eyes narrowed before he sighed and asked, "You know that you are the most insufferable human being ever to walk the earth, right?"

It would have been better if he'd hit him. Anger, grief, sadness – Sherlock could have dealt with that.

He wasn't prepared for the disappointment in Lestrade's voice though.

Something of what he was feeling must have been showing in his eyes because the Di looked at the floor, cleared his throat and said in a strange voice, "It's good, you know. To have you back. It's just – strange". He laughed a short, bitter laugh. "But I guess comes with the job description of "Sherlock Holmes' handler".

Sherlock decided not to answer and instead told him about Ronald Adair and Moran.

Lestrade agreed to help him, and Sherlock tried to convince himself that this was enough, this was all he wanted.

He left and made his way to John's new flat.

He hadn't been surprised when Mycroft had informed him of John's move. He had been surprised that he was still living alone, however, and apparently doing nothing except working and grocery shopping. John had been a soldier; he knew how to handle grief. Yes, he'd cried at the cemetery, but it had been three years. And his life hadn't been put on hold like Sherlock's had.

Or so he thought.

He only managed a timid knock on his door, angry with himself. He could pick the lock; why was he wasting –

John opened the door.

Sherlock had thought Lestrade's reaction had been bad, but it was nothing compared to John's.

Because John had no reaction at all.

He blinked and looked at Sherlock like one would look at a stranger, or a casual acquaintance one met at the street and couldn't immediately remember the name of, and Sherlock looked at him and saw the evidence of countless sleepless nights and the weight he'd lost and could tell from the shoes standing beside the door that he'd been to the cemetery again, and shame settled in his chest once more.

"John – " he started, but the doctor didn't wait for him to finish; he grabbed him and dragged him into the flat, slamming the door.

In the next moment, he punched him in the face.

Sherlock staggered back, almost relieved. It was what he would have expected of John. If he told him to leave now –

He would not be happy about it. But he would understand.

And then he realized John was crying.

Silent tears were streaming down the doctor's face, and he didn't know what to do, this was not his area, he would never be able to forgive himself for putting him through this, but it had to be done, and he could explain, but wasn't sure that John would appreciate him trying to now, and –

"I missed you" John croaked, and Sherlock looked at him once more and saw how broken he'd become.

And he had done this. He had broken the strongest man he'd ever known.

"John, I – " he started but didn't know how to express how lost he was, and what he had done, what he'd been forced to do over the last three years, and how ashamed he was.

John shook his head, and he thought this was it, but then the doctor finally looked him in the eyes and he realized that, against all odds, he was happy that he was back.

"Don't think I'm not still angry" he announced, tiredly, and Sherlock almost flinched at the tone of his voice.

"But – God, Sherlock – "

John hugged him. It happened so fast that Sherlock had no time to reciprocate, but John didn't sound lost anymore after he pulled back, and something of the old glitter was back in his eyes.

"So" he asked, "What do we do?"

Trapping Moran was disappointingly easy – he simply tried to shoot the puppet Sherlock had installed in his chair at 221B, and they caught him red-handed – or it would have been, if he had cared. But he didn't. He was home and there were things he had to fix. So many. And he didn't know if the guilt and shame and grief would ever truly disappear.

As he watched the police officers put Moran in the car, though, he caught Lestrade's eyes, and the DI nodded.

Something of the weight he'd been carrying left his chest.

"I'm starving".

He turned around. John smiled at him, the first real smile since he'd returned.

Sherlock smiled back and nodded, and they made their way to Angelo's.

Maybe he would always feel a little ashamed.

But maybe – just maybe – he would learn not to care, as long as he and John could work through this.

**Author's note: Like I said, a bit of a different style, and it's sadder than my usual Post-Reichenbach stories.**

**Please review. **


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